


Sacred Ground

by Lavender_Seaglass



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Bad Parents, F/M, bad!timeline, characters will be tagged as they show up, or original!timeline i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4191090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Seaglass/pseuds/Lavender_Seaglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was always out of hand, even the first time around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred Ground

Quiet, patient, docile, and plain: she was to cultivate such virtuous characteristics if she were ever to have any chance of being forgiven in this lifetime. She had asked her mother, once, when she didn't know better, when she didn't understand how hard deep and desperate despair could drive the hand of an adult, she had asked her mother what she, her daughter, had done, what was it that she was seeking to be forgiven for?

It didn't matter what it was. 

What mattered, she had learned, between the physical blows brought imperiously upon her bare skin, skin she did not offer up even to the warm gentle light of the sun, was that she had to learn that atonement was her lot in life. Fairness and unfairness weren't something to be debated because justice didn't even come into it. She was undeserving. There was no point in thinking otherwise. 

Did she understand that?

Even after sixteen years, no.

But she would learn, she was told. Truth is like ideas and disease. Truth is dangerous, truth is insidious, it doesn't matter if you have eradicated its patient zero. It's already infected its next generation of victims.

**. . .**

Sister Katherine of Leeds needs herbs for one of her many chronic rashes, and fetching them is a repetitive task Robin has only ever been gratified to be assigned. It's a reliable source of breaks from the monotony of life contained within the convent. She does love her Sisters dearly. Even the ones old enough to be her mother's mothers, which is part of the problem. Beyond a shallow, simplistic life, there isn't much that they have in common—there are simply too many things that Robin has yet to know.

Parties, plagues, pageants, pages dressed in livery so extravagant peasants can't tell them apart from petty noblemen, other people her own age, and so much more: she can only imagine it based on the varying oral accounts she has been given. What she does _actually_ know about is different. How to tell the hour by the position of the shadows in a room with only one small window, how to care for her hygiene without encouraging vanity, how to elegantly (and masterfully, she's been told) set bones with the aid of magic. 

All, of course, in the service of Naga, most blessed and merciful mother. Such is Naga's munificence that she could even take her case on, Robin's mother reminds her every so often. Know that it takes a deity to have the goodness of heart to give you the chance to grovel at her feet and pray, pray, pray, you pitiful abomination, for absolution. 

Robin doesn't really mind Naga. It's her mother with whom she has problems. Or, as she has sometimes framed it for herself when trying to rationally think it out, just as Naga doesn't seem to personally have a problem with Robin, it's her mother who personally has a problem with her—a personal problem, really, and one that Robin has never been able to help her solve. 

That's another thing that she does know after so many years amidst people stuck with themselves and not many distractions. Sometimes people can only help themselves.

With a basket tucked neatly into the space between her torso and her arm, and the abbey to her back, she feels that all the open space and light is probably not something that she deserves, but she's not sure what she could do about it. What the Mother Abbess teaches is that the sun shines equally on all creatures, just as the rain falls as freely. Naga's grace is similar, it's extended to all, even if they can't feel its warmth because they've fled for shelter in the shadow of Grima. If only those who dwelt in the shadows could dare to take that first step, they would know what they were missing out on the moment the chill thawed. 

Robin's heard similar stories all her life, and still the image makes her shiver. Anyone, she knows, would shutter at the sight of Grima, at the sight of death. No-one is immune to death. 

What she needs to collect isn't much of a particular kind of plant. It's a little tricky to find, but she's had plenty of practise; usually it grows in clusters at the bases of larger rocks; usually it is found on the northerly sides that don't get as much of the sun in spring. There aren't many trees at this altitude but the air is clear and cool and sharp nonetheless. It's mountain air: as good as it gets for breathing, she's been told, in any season. So much easier on the lungs and skin than sea or city air. 

To acknowledge her blessing, she breathes deeply and exhales well until she's sure there's nothing left, a good breath of fresh air. 

The sun is past its apex, already sunken into its daily descent. By the time she finds the sixteen or so sprigs that will make up at least a week's worth of tincture there are several gradations of colours in the sky. The shades of orange are nice as always, but Robin is fond of the purples. She's always liked cooler palettes. 

She stands upon a rock, stretching her arms to the heavens as she takes in the view. There are plenty of slopes shadowed in blues, blacks, and greys where not all of the lower levels of snowfall have succumbed, and she spots a strip of scree that's visible from the additional height offered by her perch. But the winds are more noticeable up here. 

It's not just the chill of the evening starting to settle, the bottoms of her robe and cloak are harried by a breeze and stick around the ankles of her community-shared boots. She's prompted by discomfort to put her hood up. Which she does, after shifting her gatherings back into the space between her body and arm and sparing a thought, before covering her head, that there's no thought she thinks that she can hide from Naga. Not up here where's there's nothing but earth and sky and the things she carries around inexorably in her head. Besides the latter there's really not that much worth noticing. Such vast emptiness all around her only emphasises that. There's no way to avoid it, not out here when there's nothing else to focus on.

The thought soon surfaces from a not-so-deep layer of her conscience. 

There must be something dark lurking within her, she's sure of it. There are clues that point to it, it sometimes shimmers through her life, she has experienced little quirks of dread that aren't at all related to her then current circumstances. And there are less normal things. When handling books, when flipping through their pages, she'll feel a longing in her veins for tomes not as plain or unwizened to brush against her fingertips; when she's out, when she's alone and vulnerable, she has thoughts of stabbing and skewering and impaling others, if need be, to protect herself. At night she dreams of the possibilities the abbey presents as a possible holdout for a siege. 

There's something that her mother knows and won't tell her; the rest of her sisters seem to be in on it, as they haven't told her either. 

There _had_ been an admission, once, that she and her mother were refugees from Plegia. But that doesn't seem to be it, it has to be something deeper, because already her mother had fled to raise her child in the pure light of Naga, making the point to everyone in the world that she and her kin were no longer in thrall to the Fell Dragon. And she has to be a noblewoman otherwise she would have been turned away from their particular shelter, so it doesn't seem possible to Robin that her mother could have all that sordid of a past. If it were the murder of her husband, that really wasn't that bad, not a singular sin at all, more than one sister had admitted to poisoning hers to protect her family. 

What Robin believes is that the dark thing, whatever it is, is something that originates within her. It's not her mother's, there's no way. It's like lust, desire, shame, or guilt, it's a personal problem that only she can solve. She thinks she can feel it, if she concentrates on it. It's in her body, under her shift, under her skin, in her heart, pulsating even when she breathes out. 

As for figuring out what it is, that's the first step towards formulating her plan for beating it. 

Robin climbs down from her rock carefully. One foot at a time, one step down at a time, her hands held out for balance when not gripping into a groove. Moss can be just as hazardous as ice, in her experience. At least it's more easily visible when its organic colours contrast well against the inorganic colours of stones and boulders. Keeping her gathered herbs safely near her, she heads back towards home. She's down at the lower edge of a field, so she has to clear a ridge before the abbey, nestled between a slight rise and an abundant spring, comes into view. 

It's already late, but not late enough to explain the haze that's before her eyes. But it's smoke that's before her, she realises, it's rising, as a temporary lull in the wind allows for a proper plume to rise without being immediately blown down. 

Naturally she hadn't smelt or seen or heard it before, she had been standing upwind. Standing around and doing nothing as her family had been attacked and her home destroyed. The brigands aren't done, not by any means, but they're already somewhere deep into the process of destruction. 

And the fire keeps burning. 

__

.

For several seconds she cannot move at all. Not even to blink. And then suddenly all she can do is move, her entire existence is in motion even though she's yielded good sense to instinct: she doesn't know what her goal is. She just knows that she is moving. Her feet are carrying her forward.

Towards the smoke, until the first scream she hears. The impact of it slams into her and knocks the breath from her chest.

Who is it, it could be any one of the women. It could be the Mother Abbess. It could be her mother. 

She doesn't have time to speculate, not now, she chooses the most direct path to the abbey. The smoke is still buffeted and cleared by the wind in the other direction, which is both a blessing and a curse. She can approach the place more easily. But there is no cover for the bright flames and stretches of blood she can see within the first courtyard she arrives in. Someone has been dragged through the dirt, but she sees no bodies. Just a trail with signs of thrashing down a garden path and through a bed of flowers that should bloom blue in a few days. 

She doesn't see a body, and she doesn't find a body. She needs a second to pause and breathe and search for sense. 

As she moves she doesn't think about the turns she will need to take to get to her cell, but there is the matter of where the brigands or bandits might be. Not too fanned out, she hasn't seen any yet. Maybe they're all moving in a single group? No, the halls are too narrow, barely three women can walk abreast. 

The chapel, then. A place that could hold all of them, a place rich with iconography and artefacts sure to fetch a nice sum from nobles who wouldn't ask the origins of such precious objects provided they could have them in their collection. 

The chapel is where she will head. 

But first her mother. 

Her mother who isn't her own cell or Robin's cell. And she has yet to meet anyone else. It's not silent because of the flames, though it is hard to see. She rips a shred from one of her linen sheets and wets it in cold water in a plain white bowl used regularly for washing. She thinks that the thinner material will be easier to breathe through than the towel she would normally use to dry her face and arms and legs. 

Leaving everything else behind, she starts off towards the chapel. Smoke, flame, scorched stones, smears of red—evidence of people but no-one present. She wonders if she really is that late. 

There are tears in her eyes that are swelling shut, and she doesn't _see_ the arm that reaches out to grab her. When she's spun around and forced to see a face she is sure that she's never seen anything so putrid or hateful, and is glad of the smoke that is keeping away the scent of what must be an utterly noxious breath. 

“You certainly are the youngest one left, little girl. Come with me outside. I have some wounds for your hot little holy hands to heal....”

She can't believe what is being asked of her, and her look must say as much, because the brigand whacks her with his gigantic curled knuckles. She has never seen hands so large.

“I wasn't asking you. Now come along. I've got a staff for you and everything and, if you don't make too much of a fuss, maybe we'll spare you. Take you back to our camp, how does that sound? We could use a nice little doctor, easy on the eyes, who knows, maybe we won't sell you...”

He doesn't care what she wants, doesn't even care to listen, as he goes gabbing on while she struggles from the moment he, with just an easy shift of his arm, lifts her over his shoulder and begins to walk them both the wrong way. The chapel is deeper into the abbey, not on the outside of it. She screams, where are the rest of my sisters and all he does is laugh and then cough because of the smoke. For her insolence, how dare she do him such bodily harm, he bashes her over the head. 

She is out until she wakes up to find herself outside. On the ground, close to the spring. In the water she can see the reflections of the chaos going on behind her, the image more confused by the crazed eddies created by the strong evening winds. She finds that none of her limbs are bound. 

Even if they did expect her to run, or if they expected her to be out for a few more minutes, she isn't in the position to pass on this opportunity. She pushes herself up and starts to run right into her captor. 

“All right,” he says, “that's enough daring for now.” He shoves a staff into her, the force of it knocks her back bodily, she takes a step backwards to steady herself. He holds out his arm and grunts. There are first degree burns he needs healed. She looks right at him, and she thinks not about what he said but how he said it. With some kind of accent he had spoken, one that sounds vaguely of how she remembers her mother sounding years ago. She has a few seconds, and in them she digs around in her memories for the answer to her question: where is he from?

She uses these few seconds for this because she has already judged this to be true from the way he's regarding her: he doesn't believe that she is brave. 

She doesn't need the time to decide to do what she does next: ram the rod of her staff into his vulnerable burns, then into his throat. He crumples down and when he is down she holds the end of the staff as if it were a spear, and, even though it isn't a real sensation that's possible, she feels his pulse fluttering beneath her fingertips. 

“Where are they?”

“Who?”

“The rest of us.”

“Fuck if I know—I”

She pushes down, hard. “Where is my family?” she says, almost cries. She can't blame her blurry vision solely on the smoke. 

“Dead, you little whore! Already dead, and the fire is doing the cleaning up for us. I was going to spare you, but—well”

He never does finish that particular thought. Even when she bears down with all of her weight he still has his legs that are undamaged and they are strong and burly and more than enough to knock her down. He straddles her, their roles are reserved, and he can strangle her with his one good hand. She can feel his fingertips touching together between her skin and the dirt he is pushing her down into.

“They weren't what we were looking for, and neither are you. You're nothing special, just another little piece of holier-than-thou Ylissean trash.”

His other hand is at the end of his horribly burned arm, and still he punches her. Once, twice, she tastes blood and bile rising and luckily she's spared losing any teeth. That's a stray thought, as she claws at the grip encircling her throat. 

“Does hearing that bother you, little girl?"

She can't even gasp. 

“What, speechless?”

Blue, yellow, violet, red, green—what colour isn't she seeing flash unfocussed in front of her? No faces or memories or even sentiments. So she'll get nothing, nothing that matters, before she dies. 

“How sweet,” he says. 

And it seems he's going to laugh one second, and it seems that that will be her last image before black is the only colour she'll ever see again, some stranger laughing in her face, it seems that this is the end and then the next second comes and he can't laugh because there is a sharp silver something sticking sickly out of his mouth. 

He is kicked off of her, not even his firm and determined hold on her life can keep him in place. The man standing behind her assailant withdraws his sword from the corpse he has skewered, and doesn't need to clean his blade from such foul defilement because apparently it is holy and has not been sullied, the silver sword gleams even in what limited light there is left in the world. 

Or, it could be, maybe, it's glowing. He sheaths it and it leaves a blazing blue after-image.

“Milady, you'll be all right. We're here now, but I'm so sorry we were so late.”

His hair is blue, and his eyes are blue. That strikes her. Her next thought is that she certainly has seen his image before. 

But she can't recall it, where it possibly could have been, before she reaches a hand up and passes out to the feeling of:

_What a warm and wonderful person._

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is something I have wanted to write for a long time: a proper story about how I imagine the bad!timeline could have transpired. I don't want to call this an AU yet, but I do admit that some of the details will be filled in from headcanons seeing as we get so few details about how the events of the timeline went, even for the events that the children were witness to.
> 
> That being said, I'm working with the premise that events were a lot different--though similar in structure--before Grima time-travelled along with Lucina and started to wreak havoc and speed things up. This was pretty much stated in canon and so I feel, if it is a stretch, it isn't too big of one. Hopefully the story won't be so inelastic as to cause too many plotholes.
> 
> It's pretty easy to see where this journey ends but, to be honest, it's the adventure that interests me the most.


End file.
